French Perfume
by Shadowcatxx
Summary: AU. 1920. Francis Bonnefoi was a shipwrecked smuggler; Matt Kirkland was a teenager yearning for more than Newfoundland. When Matt pulled Francis from the water he wasn't expecting to fall in love with the suave Frenchman, and Francis: "I want to take Mathieu with me. I want to steal him away"—but first he would have to deal with Matt's family. (contains fragments of FACE Family ;)
1. Prologue

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers **– **Hidekaz Himaruya**

**AND "French Perfume" – Great Big Sea**

**FRENCH PERFUME**

WARNING:This story is intended for a mature audience and contains scenes that some readers may find offensive. If you are underage or easily offended, I discourage you from continuing. However, if you are 16+ I bid you welcome and enjoy! Thank-you for your attention :)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please excuse the incredibly historically-inaccurate use of modern language (insofar as dialogue and description), as well as my taking liberties with some character names and relationships.

ALWAYS practice safe sex.

For those of you who would prefer to read _French Perfume_ in Chinese, please visit the link on my homepage.

Thank-you to the lovely and talented translator: Mapleholic :)

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi

CANADA — Mathew Kirkland

ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland

AMERICA — Alfred Kirkland

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

A single-mast schooner cut speedily through the black water, moonlight bouncing off the surface. She was riding low in the water, filled with contraband: perfume, smokes, and rum. The bold, young smuggler stood ready at the helm, alert; bright blue eyes searching the dark shoreline for signs of danger. He had ridden the waves from Fortune to St. Pierre, and hoped that the fog was thick enough tonight to make another run before daybreak. But as he neared Mortier Bay, he saw a glint of light. The Mountie boats were waiting for him. Bright floodlights flared-up like the light of day and the boats gave chase. "Merde!" the smuggler cursed, clenching the helm. Foolishly, reckless with greed, he had sailed right into an ambush. He heard the Mounties shouting at him, warning him to heave to as the boats closed in. If they caught him, he would undoubtedly hang—no judge, no trial, just a quick drop and a sudden stop. Just like the rest of his crew had. _Not me_, he decided. He opened up the engines and he ran for Spanish Room.

The Mounties chased him, engines cutting loudly through the water. A sired sounded.

_I'm not going back_, the smuggler thought, determined. _I won't die by their hands_. As his schooner raced, he threw his head back, face set in a mad grin, and he laughed. The shoreline was getting closer—closer. Cold moonlight bathed the rocks. The seagulls on the coast started lifting, sensing danger and crying out like an angry banshee choir. A final warning sounded from the Mounties: You're going too fast, you'll never clear the rocks! But the smuggler had no intention of avoiding the rocks. _The Captain goes down with his ship_.

CRASH!

He hit the rocks at fifty clicks and the sky lit up with fire.


	2. Chapter One

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**"French Perfume" – Great Big Sea**

**FRENCH PERFUME**

* * *

**ONE**

**NEWFOUNDLAND 1920**

Matt leapt from rock to slippery, moss-covered rock. It was sunset and the bay looked like liquid gold, sunrays sparkling. He wasn't supposed to be out, playing like a child on the beach near the water. _It's dangerous_, said Arthur, even though Matt was sixteen-years-old. But it was a perfect autumn night. It was calm and crystal clear, and a cool breeze blew inland, smelling curiously like sweet, French perfume. Matt picked up a flat stone and whipped it across the water's surface, watching it skip: once, twice—CRASH. He cocked his pale-blonde head and drew closer, spying something big and bulky floating in the water. He rolled up his trouser-legs, removed his shoes, and slipped into the cold water, feeling his way along the rocks barefoot.

_Is that part of a ship_? He recognized the curved haul. _And is that—_? There was a body in the water, lying on the splintered haul. Matt splashed through the water, wading out waist-deep and reached the wreck. It was a young, half-drowned man, as pale and cold as death, but alive. Matt felt his pulse beating weakly.

_Dad's not going to like this_, Matt thought, lifting the man clumsily onto his back. _But if I leave him_, _he'll die._

* * *

Absolutely not," said Arthur Kirkland, crossing his arms. "You're not bringing a stranger, a _pirate_, into my house."

"Dad, he's dying," Matt argued. The pirate in question was draped over the boy's shoulders, his long legs dragging on the ground. Matt, bowed beneath the weight, felt him slipping, but Al caught him.

"C'mon, Dad, Mattie found a new pet. Can we keep him?" he mocked, smiling broadly.

Arthur eyed his young, fraternal-twin sons unhappily. "Do you see that brand on his forearm? It means that he's a criminal. And that"—he pointed to the lily tattooed to the man's chest—"means he's a _French_ criminal."

"So we should just let him die? That's petty—"

"That's my word, Mathew. Now get rid of him. Take him to the hospital," Arthur suggested, feeling merciful.

"But they'll call the Mounties and he'll go to jail, he might even hang!"

Arthur shrugged: _Not my problem_. Al said: "Let him stay, Dad. It might be fun harbouring a fugitive. I'll help you, Mattie," he added, taking half of the man's weight. "Let's put him in your bedroom."

Arthur sighed. "Am I speaking aloud?" he asked rhetorically, stepping aside in defeat. "Do either of you even hear me? Alfred's always been a headache, but Mathew _you_ used to listen to me. My word used to be law, remember? What happened to my good, sweet, _obedient_ son?"

"Did you say something, Dad?" Al called from the hallway.

* * *

You _sure_ he's alive?" Al asked his twin. He squinted down at the unconscious French pirate lying on Matt's single-bed. "He looks kind of— dead."

"He nearly drowned," said Matt, wringing a wet cloth. "If he lasts the night then he might live."

"And you're going to sit by his bedside and nurse him all night?" Al guessed, gently teasing. Matt didn't reply.

Al left to fetch fresh water and Matt sat down on a hard-backed desk chair beside the bed. He leaned over the young man and pressed the cloth to his forehead, cleaning his skin. Even sickly, he was an attractive man. He had a sculpted, artistic face, and long, curling ash-blonde hair. As Matt peeled back his wet clothes, he revealed a strong, aristocratic figure with an arching collarbone and shapely arms. Curiously—glancing at the door in secret—he touched the lily tattooed to the man's chest, on his left pectoral.

Suddenly the man's hand shot up and ensnared Matt's wrist, squeezing tight. Matt cried-out in surprise; the man's grasp was shockingly strong. _How much stronger if he was healthy_? He opened his eyes—sapphire-blue, bright and feverish—and glared up at Matt, but Matt didn't panic. He didn't want to risk the man's reaction. "Where am I?" he wheezed. His voice sounded raw. But his eyes were already closing again, weak.

"Spanish Room, or thereabouts," Matt said quietly. "My name is Mathew Kirkland. This is my Dad's house, nobody bothers us here. You'll be safe, I promise. I won't let you die."

Suspiciously he eyed Matt, searching his pale face for signs of falsehood. Then, satisfied, he released him. "Francis Bonnefoi," he managed in reply. And then blacked-out.

* * *

He's been sleeping for days," said Al through a mouthful of breakfast: black bacon and eggs on toast.

"He's recovering," said Matt, pouring cider. "When he's strong enough—"

"The minute he's _strong enough_, he's out of my house," Arthur interrupted. He lifted a china teacup to his lips without looking up from the daily newspaper. "Mathew?"

"Yes, I know," Matt sighed.

Matt heard Al talking to Arthur as he left: "_I_ wouldn't be lying around needing days to heal, I'd be up by now and ready to do, err... whatever needed doing." And Arthur's sarcastic reply: "Well we can't _all_ be heroes, can we?"

Matt took a bowl of warmed-over porridge into his bedroom and sat down. "Francis?" he said, poking the man's shoulder experimentally. "You should eat something."

Francis cracked open one blue eye, then the other. He sighed deeply and pushed himself onto his elbows with effort, leaning back against the headboard, braced with pillows. Exhausted but smiling, he took the warmed bowl from Matt. "You're a lovely boy, so compassionate," he said in French. "I like your pretty face."

"I'm not a boy, I'm sixteen," Matt said in the same language, somewhat piqued.

Francis blinked in surprise, and then chuckled, a weak but pleasant sound. "You speak Français? Bravo, mon cher. But you _are_ a boy— only sixteen," he repeated, taking a spoonful of porridge. "A boy with a _very _pretty face."

Matt narrowed his eyes guardedly. "And what about you? I bet you're not as old as you're pretending to be. You don't _look_ older than... twenty-five, twenty-six?" Francis cocked an eyebrow, smirking, and continued to chew. "Well—?" Matt prompted. "Am I right? How old are you?"

Francis swallowed. "Younger than your Papa, but older than you," he said ambiguously.

Matt rolled his eyes. "That's obvious. Where are you from?"

"France."

"You sailed all the way from France _recently_?" Matt asked doubtfully. "Your ship was shattered, but even so it didn't look big or sturdy enough to cross the Atlantic. Yes, I went back to the wreck; and no, I didn't tell my Dad," he said, answering the unasked question on Francis' face. "You couldn't have manned her alone," Matt indicated the lack of crewmen; the lack of bodies in the water. "So," he repeated, leaning slightly forward, "where did you come from?"

Francis studied the boy, sapphire-blue eyes bright with laughter. He was enjoying this game, Matt realized. "Much farther than you've ever been, I'm sure."

"_Pft_, that's obvious too. I've never even left this island," Matt said, folding his arms. "Dad never takes us with him when he leaves, he thinks we're too young. He's so old-fashion," he complained. Then, catching Francis' smiling eyes, he said: "Dad thinks you're a pirate because of that brand," he tapped his own forearm in example. "Are you? I don't mean that in offense," he hurried to explain. "I just— I think it's really cool if you are."

"You saved my life, chéri," said Francis gratefully. "I'll be whatever you want."

* * *

Matt left and Francis finished his meal in silence. It was disgusting—_English slop_—but he ate it without complaint. His body needed fuel, and Matt had made it for him. _He needs a lesson in cooking_, he thought as he licked the spoon clean. He was a nice boy; not only nice-looking, but genuinely kind. Francis had pretended to be asleep more often than he would like to admit while the boy was tending to him, touching him. He liked the feel of Matt's hands. And sometimes when Matt was focused, when he thought nobody was listening, he talked to himself. Nothing serious, just commentating—narrating his actions, sometimes humming—but he had a lovely, soft voice. It was peaceful.

Just then the bedroom door opened and a frowning blonde man stepped in. "Monsieur Kirkland?" Francis guessed, challenging the Englishman's hard glare. "Mon jeune Mathieu's Papa, oui?"

"Don't talk about my son," said Arthur in English, but proving he knew French. "Listen carefully, pirate." He stepped further inside, wanting to intimidate, however, he wasn't a particularly big or dangerous-looking man. In fact, he was rather slender, like Matt, but his colouring was more like Matt's loud-mouthed brother. "I don't know who you are, or what you're wanted for, but as soon as you're strong enough I want you to leave my house."

Francis nodded. "Of course, Monsieur. Let me thank-you in advance for your hospitality." Satisfied, the stark Englishman was about to leave, and Francis was going to let him, but he couldn't resist: "Maybe I'll take Mathieu with me when I go."

Provoked, Arthur redoubled: "You fucking French frog!" he snapped. "You're all the fucking same. I know the type well, and I'm warning you: Leave my son alone—"

"Dad?" Matt called from the hallway. "Oh, there you are." He poked his head into the bedroom, then paused. "You've met Mr. Bonnefoi?"

"Call me Francis, cher," said Francis indulgently. His eyes flickered from Matt to Arthur, who hadn't released him from a nasty glare.

"Mathew, would you please fetch the post from the letterbox, love?" The words were a request, but Arthur's tone was an order. Matt left quietly, glancing curiously between the two older men. The Englishman waited until he heard the front door close before he said: "The only reason you're here and not rotting in jail is because my son has a heart of gold. But if you touch him," Arthur warned, staring blackly at the Frenchman. "If you lay _one_ filthy finger on him, I swear I'll see you hanged. Do you understand me, frog-eater? Or should I repeat it in fucking French?"

"How kind, but I understand," he said cockily, in English. "If I had a son like Mathieu in a house with me, I'd be overprotective too."

In a flash Arthur had grabbed the front of Francis' shirt. "For fuck's sake! Threaten me again, _boy_."

"_Boy_?" He chuckled humourlessly. Then he leaned toward Arthur confidentially, almost nose-to-nose: "I haven't been a boy since I was fourteen-years-old, _Mr. _Kirkland. I'm not a boy. Your pretty son is, but for how much longer? He's not going to stay your innocent bébé forever, you know— not if I can help it."

* * *

Dad punched the pirate," Al told Matt. "I was just walking past your bedroom and— _bam_!" Al punched his fist into his palm in example. "Dad socked him right in the face. I don't know why," he added before Matt could ask. He shrugged. "Maybe his hatred of Frenchmen has finally climaxed into a compulsion to randomly assault them," he said, sounding hopeful. No doubt, Al thought that the whole situation was a great joke (he had a weird sense of humour).

Matt stared at his twin. "Do you hear yourself when you talk?" he asked condescendingly. "Dad's not totally mad, Al. He wouldn't just hit someone for no reason."

"Alright," Al blew-out his bangs, cowlick flopping. He crossed his arms: "Then what's the reason?"

Matt paused. "I don't know."

"Dad's finally lost it, gone down the rabbit hole," Al decided. And skipped off.

* * *

Why did my Dad hit you?" Matt asked Francis. It was a legitimate question, he reasoned, since the Frenchman's eye was swelling. Matt soaked a cloth with witch-hazel and gently took Francis' chin between his thumb and forefinger. _I brought him here_,_ he's my responsibility_, he thought, dabbing at the purple skin encircling Francis' left eye. _It's better if he doesn't cause trouble_. _If he tells me what the problem is_,_ maybe I can fix it_. "Well?" he prompted.

But Francis only smiled. "Don't worry, chéri. I deserved it."

Matt frowned. "What did you do?"

"Provoked him."

"Why?"

"I don't like Englishmen," Francis said, shrugging inconsequentially. "And, forgive me, but your Papa is the quintessential Englishman. He alone could represent the whole damn nation. I just wanted to see what kind of man he is. I find that the most telling characteristic about a man is his temper, or lack thereof. Your Papa is _very_ protective of you and your brother, Mathieu. He loves you a lot. You're very fortunate."

"I know," Matt tried—and failed—to conceal a smile. "He's not the most outwardly affectionate person, but I know he loves Al and I. Since my Mum died giving birth to us it's always been just the three of us. We haven't always made it easy, but Dad's always done his best, you know?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't," Francis smiled sadly. "I never knew my birth parents. I was raised as a foster-child in an Italian household until I was fourteen, then I left and I've never gone back."

Matt's look was sympathetic. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

He shrugged sheepishly. "For drudging up painful memories? I can't imagine living alone without Al and my Dad. They aren't always subtle. They're both stubborn and overbearing, and sometimes they drive me crazy, but it's okay because they're mine. Is that selfish?" Matt grinned. "I don't really care if it is. It's a nice feeling, knowing that, whatever else happens, they'll always be there for me, no matter how badly I mess up. I don't think I'd do very well on my own. I think it'd be really lonely."

"It doesn't have to be." Without warning, Francis reached up and enveloped Matt's slim wrist.

Matt stiffened. Francis' hand was long-fingered and lithe, but strong as well. _Have I done something wrong_? he worried, _have I insulted him_? He opened his mouth to apologize, but Francis spoke first:

"Have you ever been kissed, Mathieu?"

In reflex, Matt wrenched his hand back. "_What_? Where did _that_ come from?" he asked, retreating in shock.

"I'll take that as a no," Francis chuckled. He looked at Matt's confused, shell-shocked face, and surrendered his hands. "Relax, chéri. It was only a question," but Matt continued to stare. "Oh dear, you're as high-strung as your Papa, aren't you? That's the same reaction he had when I told him I'd steal you away. It was just a joke," he assured the wide-eyed boy. "I told you before: I don't like Englishmen, I just wanted to make him angry. Please, Mathieu, you don't have to be scared of me."

"I'm not _scared_!" Matt bristled, cheeks flushed in angry embarrassment. In an attempt to defend himself, he added: "And it's not like I wouldn't kiss a pretty girl if given the opportunity. It's just... well, have _you_ seen many girls around here?" he challenged, waving his hand in indication of the sprawling, empty fields and forestland; the bay and rocky shoreline; the endless stretch of ocean. "Neighbours are far and few between out here, and the town is small. Of the few girls I know, I've known since we were kids."

"It has to be a girl?" asked Francis, cocking his head in mock-innocence. "Someone with your pretty looks, Mathieu, I'm surprised you've never been approached by the local boys." Matt's violet eyes flickered, looking down in a telling, embarrassed way. "Oh. You _have_ been." Francis grinned. "What happened, not your type?"

"It only happened once before... and it wasn't _really _anything," Matt clarified, feeling defensive. "It was just a joke... I think. Al punched him in the face."

"Ah, another familial trait."

Matt wrung the damp cloth between his hands, like a man awaiting trial. It shouldn't have mattered what he had experienced in the past. The uneven gender ratio of Spanish Room suggested that he wasn't the first to be sought after by other boys, and Francis didn't seem too perturbed by the idea. In fact, his persona was rather amused. _Fuck. I've never told anyone that except Al_, _and only because Al had been there_. Yet Francis had guessed it right away. It made Matt nervous. If the Frenchman was so apt at reading people, what else might he mistake from Matt's elevated heartbeat, his flushed cheeks, and his overall uncertainly.

Lost in thought, he flinched when Francis' hand touched his arm.

"I'm joking," he said kindly. "Please don't be anxious. I'm sorry if I offended you." In good-faith he smiled, and added: "Call it a pirate's sick sense of humour."

Matt swallowed. "I'm going to make tea," he said in escape. "I'll bring you some if you'd like." Then he left.


	3. Chapter Two

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**"French Perfume" – Great Big Sea**

**FRENCH PERFUME**

* * *

**TWO**

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. It was late in the evening on a weekday. Arthur was enjoying his after-supper tea when someone banged on the front door. "Who would be calling at this hour?" he asked suspiciously, waving at Al to answer. The boy eyed the shotgun beneath the coat-rack as he opened the door.

"Oh. Hello, sir. Can I help you?"

Arthur stood, still holding his teaspoon. Al's tone was surprised, but respectful: the kind of respect that was demanded by uniform rather than earned. _Someone of authority_. "Alfred?" he said, walking closer. Two red-coated officers stood on the porch: RCMP. "Is something wrong, officers?" he asked. Cautiously he cast a warning glance at Al: _Go warn your brother_. "Please, come in. I've just boiled the kettle," he said, inviting the Mounties inside. Al left quietly, slipping unnoticed down the hallway. Arthur covered his retreat, offering his guests a seat. "Milk and sugar?"

* * *

Matt was sitting cross-legged on the foot of Francis' bed. The Frenchman was teaching him how to play Faro, a deck of cards spread out on the bed-sheets between them. "Alright, I'll take— No, wait!" he drew back.

"No take-backs," Francis insisted, grabbing Matt's wrist. "Let's see what you've got."

"No, wait!" Matt fought Francis good-humouredly, trying to keep his hand of cards hidden. "I'm not ready— _ah_!" He flinched, tears of laughter beading in his eyes as Francis tickled him, long fingers grabbing playfully at Matt's sensitive ribs. "That's cheating!" he gasped, flushed with laughter. "Stop it, or I'll— Oh, sorry," he stopped and quickly sat up. Francis had started to cough, bowed over in effort. As lively as the Frenchman was, it was easy for Matt to forget that he was still quite ill. His body weakened by near-drowning, Francis had caught a nasty flu and had spent the previous night vomiting into a washbasin. He healed quickly, he boasted—already he had regained his energy and much of his colour—but, as Francis coughed-up phlegm, pounding on his chest, Matt could see the hollowness of his cheeks and the shadows of fatigue beneath his blue eyes. "Are you alright?" he asked, inching closer. Gently he laid his hand on Francis' back to steady him. He could feel Francis' hot skin beneath his shirt, shoulders rising and falling as he breathed. "I'll get you something to drink," Matt started to stand, but Francis grabbed his forearm.

"Non, I'm fine. Don't leave me," he said, giving Matt a wane grin. "I'm okay. I have an excellent care-giver, ma petite infirmière."

Matt cocked an eyebrow in feigned insult. "Alright then, doctor's orders," he played along, pressing his hand to Francis' chest and pushing him down. "Sleep is the best medicine."

"I thought that was laughter." Francis hadn't let go of Matt's arm. Impishly, he slid his hand up beneath the boy's pushed-up sleeve and squeezed his bicep. Matt arched his shoulders defensively, smiling in anticipation.

"Mattie!" Al burst in. Francis released Matt. "There's RCMP at the door. We've got to hide the Frenchie."

Matt's face paled. "_What_?! Why are they _here_?" he asked, helping Francis out of bed, pulling at him urgently. Francis took Matt's arm for balance, feeling weak, while trying to subdue a coughing fit. "Cellar?" Matt suggested.

"Cellar," Al agreed, taking Francis' other arm. "C'mon, Frenchie."

They snuck from Matt's bedroom to the cellar-door, then opened it. It squeaked in disuse, but Matt distinctly heard Arthur's voice from the parlour rise to cover the noise. He was talking to the two RCMP officers, asking politely after their business, rambling about the weather to buy time. Arthur wasn't a terrible actor; in fact, his voice sounded sincere as he shared his concerns about ruffians with the local authorities. Matt hoped that it would be enough to slow them down, though one of the officers sounded impatient in his curt replies. They helped Francis down the steep cellar stairs, careless in panic. Matt bit his lip when he stubbed his toe. "It's over here," he said, leading the trio to an inconspicuous trapdoor in the floor. Al wrenched it up with effort, letting dust-motes fly. It led to a small, dirt-floored hatch beneath the house: a smuggler's hold that had been there since the old house was built.

"How appropriate," Francis joked as Matt helped him inside. It was shallow, the ceiling was only three-feet high. Francis had to crawl on his stomach to fit, bowing his head. With difficulty he turned around, biting back a raw cough, and smiled uncomfortably up at the boys. "Don't forget to come back for me, oui?"

"I'm sorry," said Matt. Al said: "Duck," and pulled the trapdoor overhead, securing it. Together they covered it with a dusty floor-mat and were dragging a heavy trunk overtop when they heard Arthur's loud voice:

"Search the house? Of course, officers. Whatever I can do to accommodate your investigation. I'll just call the boys, shall I? Mathew, Alfred, please come here!"

Matt closed the cellar-door just as a redcoat rounded the corner. "Oh. Hello, sir," he said innocently.

"Mathew, Alfred," Arthur gestured for them, drawing them closer. "This is Officer McKee and Officer Gilroy. They're investigating a case and would like to ask you both some questions."

"Okay," said Matt, exchanging a glance with Al. Al shrugged, feigning boredom.

Matt was led into the parlour and encouraged to sit. Officer Gilroy remained standing, leaving the low coffee table between them. He tried to intimidate with his size, leaning down, but, strangely, Matt felt perfectly calm: cold-eyed and impassive. It was an act, of course, but it seemed to work. Officer Gilroy apologised for the late-night visit: "Protocol" he called it. He asked Matt a series of seemingly meaningless questions about a nearby shipwreck. "Yes, I know that beach. No, I haven't been there since last week," he lied. Gilroy nodded, taking notes. Then he turned to Al:

Al's strategy was somewhat less accommodating, but it worked. His face had always been expressive, and so rather than hide it, which would've been Francis' death-sentence, he folded his arms and behaved like a brat. He sat slumped in an armchair and challenged every question that he was asked, like a spoiled child full of pent-up attitude. He sighed loudly and noticeably rolled his eyes, acting like the interrogation was a complete waste of his time, and successfully pissed-off Gilroy. "Yeah, whatever," he finished caddishly. "Can I go now?"

It was then that McKee returned, having searched the house. Matt's heart was pounding, but he behaved in a deceptively calm fashion as he stood and walked the Mounties to the door. "I wish you luck in your investigation, officers," said Arthur. "I hope you find the man you're looking for. He sounds like a proper git," he added, smiling. It helped that, despite his offensive language, Arthur was a well-respected and law-abiding patron of society.

"Thank-you," said the Mounties. Gilroy tipped his hat, then they mounted two thoroughbred horses and left.

Arthur waited until they were completely out of sight before he sighed. Then he rounded on Matt: "I told you this would happen, didn't I? Harbouring a fugitive, we could've been charged as co-conspirators!" he snapped. "And for what? A bloody-fucking pirate! Where'd you put that limely git, anyway? I'm going to— _what_?" he said unhappily.

Despite the situation, Matt was smiling. "You helped him, Dad. You lied to the RCMP to help a _Frenchman_. Maybe you don't hate him as much as you pretend to."

Arthur narrowed his cloudy, forest-green eyes. He pointed deliberately at Matt: "Watch it, boy. I won't have you talking like that in my house."

* * *

Matt returned to the cellar to collect Francis. He singlehandedly shoved the chest back and kicked the mat, then lifted the heavy trapdoor. "Francis, are you alright? I'm sorry it took so long, but it's safe now to—" Braced on his elbows, Francis' shoulders were arched; head bowed as his body lurched forward. He pressed a hand to his mouth, swallowing bile. His skin was pale and sweaty and his eyes were squeezed shut. His breathing was fast and irregular. "Eh, are you alright?!" Matt repeated, worry lacing his voice. He knelt down and, taking Francis under the arms, pulled him up. Francis clutched Matt weakly, resting his forehead against the boy's chest as he gasped. "You're not well," Matt said unnecessarily. "Let's get you back to bed."

Matt struggled up the steep stairs—Francis was heavier than he looked—and helped him into his bedroom. He laid the gagging Frenchman down on the bed, on his stomach, and then hurried out to fetch a basin and water. He soaked a cloth in cool water, then sat on the bed's edge and pressed it to Francis' feverish face. "It's okay. You're going to be fine," he soothed, wiping away the cold sweat."Francis, are you claustrophobic?"

Francis leaned into Matt's touch. "I didn't think I was," he mumbled, body relaxing. "I guess I was wrong."

"I'm sorry for shoving you down there, but it's the safest place in the house," Matt explained. "Al and I found it when we were little. But if I had known you were afraid, I never would've—" He paused. "Actually, yes I would have. I was so afraid they would find you, Francis. And if they did, they would've arrested you. I've never been interrogated before, I've never lied— especially not to the RCMP. My heart was pounding the whole time. It felt like it took forever. I just wanted them to leave." _I'm rambling_, Matt realized, feeling stupid. "Sorry. I just didn't want you to get hurt."

"Mathieu," he said quietly. "Merci, chéri."

Matt blinked. "For what?"

Weakly, Francis smiled. "For caring if I die."

* * *

The coast is _literally_ clear," Al joked. He had slipped outside to walk the perimeter in search of threats, the coastline surrounding two-thirds of Arthur's property. He entered the kitchen and found Arthur slumped tiredly over the table. "What's wrong?" he asked, cocking his wheat-blonde head.

Arthur held his head in his hand, staring vacantly. "It's your brother," he said guardedly. "It's that _pirate_."

Frowning, Al sat down. "Dad?" he reached out, then withdrew, thinking better of it. Arthur looked defeated, but his forest-green eyes were feral.

"Mathew's going to get hurt because of that man, and it's my fault. I lied to the authorities, I saved a criminal for the sake of my son whilst risking his well-being. I know you know what I'm talking about, Alfred," he said, looking pointedly at Al. They had dealt with this several times before, without Matt knowing of course. "You've seen it, Alfred, but I don't think Mathew knows. God, I _hope_ he doesn't. I hope he never finds out."

"That the Frenchie pirate wants to bone him?" Al shrugged dismissively. "So what if he does? He can't have Mattie, right? We'll get rid of him just like we've done all the others." Arthur clenched his jaw, but remained silent. Al frowned uncertainly. "Dad? You don't think Mattie would actually fall for that—?" He shook his head in denial. "No. Not Matt. Fuck, I punched a guy for getting too frisky with him, remember? I'll do it again," he said proudly. "I don't care how much older he is. I'm bigger," he bragged. "I'll fucking kill the bastard who hurts my brother."

"And if Mathew doesn't _want_ you to? If he decides that he _wants_ the French bastard instead? This isn't like the local boys, Alfred, this time it's different. I should've told the RCMP," Arthur repeated, self-berating. "I should've sold him out, but I didn't, and now I've risked all of us. I've endangered you and Mathew. Fuck!" he clenched his fist. "Mathew's so much more impressionable than you, Alfred. You're so bloody stubborn, but he isn't. He can be goaded into doing things that he doesn't want to do. He can be guilted, and forced if he thinks there's no other choice. I don't trust that lying French frog. I don't even know what he's wanted for, it could be rape!" he worried.

"Dad, Mattie's going to be fine, I promise," said Al, confidently punching Arthur's shoulder. "How could he not be? He's got us looking out for him, right?" He offered a big, charming grin that Arthur didn't return. Instead, the Englishman sighed. "The Frenchie will be gone in a few days, what could possibly happen between now and then? You think Matt's going to fall head-over-heels in love and elope with that bastard? It's only been, like, a week." He snorted in mockery. "That's not going to happen."

"No," Arthur agreed. "But you're thinking like a child, Alfred. Love rarely has anything to do with it."


	4. Chapter Three

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**"French Perfume" – Great Big Sea**

**FRENCH PERFUME**

* * *

**THREE**

Francis leaned back on Matt's single-bed, folded his arms behind his head, and sighed deeply in contentment. His fever had broken a few days ago, and the bruise around his eye, which had throbbed for days—damn that English bastard's right-hook!—was finally disappearing. In truth, he had been strong enough to leave Arthur Kirkland's house two days ago. He had got up and stretched his stiff muscles and walked around the room, but the instant he heard footsteps approaching he had dived back into bed, pretending to be asleep. It had already been over a week, but he didn't want to leave yet. He wanted to stay beneath the same roof as Matt Kirkland, that sweet, sexy boy. _Just let me see him smile again_, he thought, closing his eyes, _just let him touch me— let _me_ touch_ him_._ Matt cooked for him, and nursed him, and talked to him in French. He liked listening to Francis' stories, especially ones about life at sea. Often they talked at length, until the candles burned low. Francis learned just how easily he could make Matt blush and laugh. He loved Matt's laugh, such a youthful sound.

_I want to take him with me_, Francis realized. _I want to get back on my ship—my poor splintered ship—and leave this island with Mathieu_._ I want to set sail for the open-water with Mathieu with me_,_ beside me_, _under me_.

_He's not too young_, _is he_? Francis hadn't told, but Matt had guessed right: he was twenty-six, ten years the boy's senior. Not a huge age-gap, but enough to worry the sixteen-year-old's father. Arthur had called him _boy_, but Francis hadn't been a boy since he was fourteen. _Mathieu's two years older than I was_, he reasoned. But he knew it wasn't the same— _Dieu merci_! He would never force Matt the way he had been forced. As despicable as his piratical reputation was, Francis Bonnefoi truly believed in love, not lust. He had never bedded anyone he did not care for.

The bedroom door swung open with a loud bang, and Francis knew it wasn't Matt. "Hey, Frenchie," said Al, barging in uninvited. He held a plate with a sandwich on it, which he set on the bedside-table. "How're you feeling?" he asked, a hint of mockery in his tone. As dense as the boy could be, he was not, Francis had realized, unobservant.

"Bien, merci," Francis nodded. _No_,_ he's not stupid_, but he still liked to tease Al, who didn't speak French. Francis found the confused, somewhat defensive look on Al's handsome face amusing.

Al Kirkland was a very attractive boy, with wheat-blonde hair and taut, suntanned skin, and bedazzling blue eyes. He looked more robust than Matt; he was physically bigger, bulkier if not taller, and certainly more confident. But he lacked his brother's caution and his father's guile. Al didn't play games when seeking information. "You've got a hard-on for my brother, don't you?" he asked bluntly. It was phrased as a question, but the certainty in Al's eyes was telling. He stood over Francis, powerful body imposing for a teenager, but Francis didn't feel particularly endangered. As big as he talked, Al wasn't as cruel as he pretended to be. "Well, Frenchie?" he challenged. "Aren't you going to deny it?"

Francis lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "Would you believe me if I did? You seem to have your mind already made up about my feelings for Mathieu. And you are rather stubborn, Alfred."

Al leaned toward Francis, unsmiling. "You're right about that," he said shamelessly. "But I don't think I'm wrong. I don't hate you, Frenchie. Don't tell my Dad, but I kind of like you and your stories. You've done some pretty cool shit— if it's true. But I like my brother much more, and if you hurt him I'll make everything my Dad's said to you look like nothing, okay? You'll wish you'd have drowned. Have a nice day," he said, smacking Francis' cheek in mock-empathy. Then he left, boots stomping down the hallway.

Despite Al's boorish manners, Francis smiled. He didn't dislike Al or Arthur. They were only trying to protect what they loved in the only way they knew how: by lashing-out and making threats. If Francis had Matt, he would try too—desperately. He would do whatever was necessary to keep that boy safe, including becoming the disreputable rascal that everyone thought he was. _But I don't want Mathieu to think of me that way_, he considered, not for the first time. He had been trying so hard to hide that part of himself from Matt. He was trying to be a gentleman for the boy's sake, someone kind, and polite, and—above all—patient. But it was hard. _Every day I want him more_. And soon he would have to leave. If he wanted to confess to Matt, he had to do it soon. Al already suspected that Francis was healthy enough to leave. The minute that Arthur joined him the Frenchman would be forced to go.

_I've got to convince Mathieu that I_— "love him," he whispered.

* * *

Matt returned at dusk, flushed from the cold wind rolling in off the water. "Look what I found," he said, holding out a wilting white lily. "Pretty, isn't it? It's strange to find lilies so far north, especially in this season. It must have been a late-bloomer. I found it at the harbour— don't tell my Dad," he added, smiling in confidence. Matt wasn't allowed to go down to the water at high-tide because Arthur was afraid he would fall in. "It reminded me of your, err... tattoo," he said, tapping his own chest in indication. "I thought you might like it."

Francis was touched. "Merci," he said kindly, taking the lily. It was a pitiful-looking flower, its silky petals dro0ped from the chilly season, but Matt looked so earnest, so proud of his find. Headily, Francis pressed the lily's petals to his lips. "Do you like my tattoo?" he asked quietly, watching Matt through lowered eyelashes. He was almost immediately rewarded with a nervous blush that coloured the boy's pale cheeks. Slowly Francis lifted his cotton shirt, exposing the hard muscles in his stomach and the lily tattooed to his chest. "I was younger than you when I got it. The man who did it left a small scar, do you see it, chéri? Here." He felt Matt tense as he took the boy's hand, but Matt let Francis press his hand against his warm, smooth pectoral. Matt swallowed; Francis grinned. "Can you feel the scar?" he asked, running Matt's fingers over the tiny, raised bump, staring tenderly into his violet eyes.

_Look at me_,_ Mathieu_. _I want to tell you something important_.

"Yes, I can... feel it," Matt said, avoiding eye-contact. His voice was soft, breathless. "I feel your heartbeat."

"Oui, it's strong," Francis said, flattening Matt's hand against his naked chest. In addition, he reached for Matt and gently touched his fingertips to the boy's clothed chest. "Your heart's beating faster than mine is, chéri. And you're blushing." Matt didn't reply, nor did he move. _Now's my chance_, Francis thought. Cautiously, as if approaching a timid animal, he reached further up and cupped Matt's pale cheek. His blue eyes lowered, and he dragged his thumb gently over the boy's soft lips. Again, he felt Matt swallow—in anticipation? "If I could I'd take you with me, Mathieu."

Matt gasped and stepped back, breaking contact, as if he had just woken. He blinked and absently licked his lips. "I, err— hope you like meat-pie, dad's cooking tonight," he said quickly. "I should— he might need help." And he left just as quickly.

Francis leaned back and sighed. "Merde," he said aloud. He took the flower, sitting beside him, and twirled it between his fingers. _This might be harder than I thought_.

* * *

Mattie, you okay? You're quiet-er than normal," said Al, removing his shirt. He tossed it sloppily over his wardrobe.

"Oh, am I?" Matt feigned ignorance. "Sorry."

Without making eye-contact, he pulled back the sheets of Al's bed and slipped in. Since Francis was sleeping in Matt's room, he had been sharing with Al. The bed was small for two teenagers, Al often squished Matt against the wall in his sleep, but neither of them complained. They had slept together as children; more often they had slept with Arthur, three to a bed. Matt liked the closeness, the touch of someone's warm, solid body against his own, which was always so cold. Al used to tease Matt: "Pretty as a snowflake and twice as cold."

"I think Dad's trying to starve the Frenchie," Al said, climbing into bed beside Matt. He stretched his strong arms and yawned loudly, which sounded like a growl. "He really hates Dad's cooking," he snickered.

Matt shrugged, lying down beneath the blankets. He hugged Al's pillow sleepily. "I'll admit it: Dad's not the finest chef, but I like his cooking."

"Desensitization?" Al guessed. "I wonder if he's any better," he nodded to the room next-door. "You know, since he's always complaining about it. I wonder if he actually _can_ cook worth a damn. Would you taste it?"

Matt's eyes snapped open. "Eh?! Taste _what_?"

Al paused. "The Frenchie's food," he clarified. "Would you taste it?"

"Oh, yeah, sure." Matt relaxed, feeling embarrassed. He felt Al lean suspiciously over him, trying to see his face, but Matt buried his face in the pillow. "Get off," he mumbled, swatting at his brother.

Al didn't obey. Instead, he rested his chin on Matt's shoulder. "He's really weird, isn't he? That Frenchie. It's not just that Dad hates him. I know Dad and I don't always agree, like, ever, but he's got a point, you know? The guy's a wanted fugitive. He's probably hiding something—?" Matt didn't reply. Al continued: "And the way he talks is weird too. Not just the French. He phrases things in really queer ways, it's manipulative, don't you think? And he wears his hair too long, longer than yours. It's too old-fashion, right? I don't like it. Do you— Matt?"

"I'm trying to sleep, Al."

Al heaved a sigh and leaned back, flopping down on the mattress. "I just think he's untrustworthy, definitely hiding something," he said, rolling over. "Dad thinks he should leave soon. He's not sick anymore, and he's bummed it for almost a fortnight. I think Dad's right, but don't tell him I said that. I won't be sorry to see Frenchie go, will you?"

Matt squeezed the pillow, angry with his brother. _Did Dad put you up to this interrogation_? he wondered. It was obvious that Al was trying to gauge Matt's reaction for answers, and Matt did _not_ appreciate it. _Why am I being monitored_? _Why are you playing Dad's spy_? he thought unkindly, feeling defensive on Francis' behalf. _It's my own business. I'm sixteen_, _I can feel however I want_!

He wanted to tell Al. He wanted to admit that he felt _something_ for Francis; something new and exciting that he didn't quite understand, but, whatever it was, it made his heart beat faster. Earlier, when Francis had touched him, he had panicked, because in that moment he had wanted Francis to kiss him. And it scared him. He had never wanted anyone's attention quite so desperately. _But he's a man_,_ and he's older than me_,_ and he's a pirate_! And so Matt had ran, denying his heart's desire. _Not my heart_, _just my body_—_ just hormones_. _Nobody falls in love in just two weeks_. _That's fiction_. But, if he was being honest with himself, it wasn't just his body that ached for Francis; it _was_ his heart. Matt had wanted to tell Al about it—he told Al everything. But, halfway there, he had stopped and retreated. Instead of telling Al he had splashed his face with cold water, forcing himself to calm down and wait for the feeling to go away. But it hadn't gone away. Even now he wanted to tell Al, but his brother had already sided with Arthur, whose opinion of the Frenchman was less than flattering. It was the first time Matt had really felt alone, isolated from his family, and he didn't like it. He felt like he was betraying them somehow, _even though I ran away_.

So instead of telling Al that he was, quite possibly, falling in love with the dashing French pirate, he said: "Goodnight, Al," and effectively put the conversation to sleep.

* * *

Francis was afraid that Matt would avoid him, but he needn't have worried. Matt knocked quietly on the door before entering. "If you feel well enough, do you want to come for a walk with me?" he asked.

They left the house wearing heavy, tartan overcoats. The wind was getting cold, but the landscape looked like fire. "Je adore l'automne," said Francis, breathing in the rich air. It smelled like saltwater and maple-leaves. "It's such a beautiful season, especially here." But he wasn't looking at the landscape, he was looking at Matt.

Matt either didn't notice, or feigned ignorance. He toyed self-consciously with an errant curl as he walked, keeping his eyes on the red horizon. It was a small habit, but it made Francis want to comb his fingers through those silky, pale-blonde locks and kiss the boy's fingers. "I love autumn, but I also love winter," Matt shared. "I can't wait to go ice-skating. We have a pond on the property, just over that hill," he pointed. "Al and I like to play hockey there."

"I've never played hockey," Francis said, indulging Matt's fancy. He loved watching Matt talk about things he liked; his entire face lit up. "It looks awfully dangerous."

Matt grinned. "It's the best sport there is," he said proudly. "It requires skill, teamwork, and brute force." He punched his hand into his palm in indication. "It really gets your blood pumping, you know? I love how fast it is."

"Would you teach me how to play?" Francis asked.

"Of course. Al thinks he's the best player, but he's not. I win way more than he does— not that I'm keeping track," he said, only half-joking. "Have you ever played lacrosse? It's kind of similar: scoring is pretty much the same, and you're encouraged to hit people with sticks, but hockey is faster. Can you skate?"

"Not well," Francis admitted. "But"—he looped his arm through Matt's, like a gentleman—"you'd catch me if I fell, wouldn't you?" He got what he wanted: Matt flushed prettily. But he didn't pull away. "I'm sure you'd make a wonderful teacher, chéri. And, in return, maybe I could teach you what I learned as a child." Without warning Francis swung Matt's body around, surprising the boy. He held Matt's waist in his left hand, while his right clasped Matt's left. "In Italy I had to learn a sequence of embarrassing dances better suited to nineteenth-century balls," he said, stepping forward, forcing Matt to step back. "Look at me, cher, not your feet." He tightened his grip on Matt's waist, holding him up, and began to twirl him around in dizzying circles. "It's better with music, shall I sing?"

"Please don't," Matt begged, trying to keep the fast pace. He tripped, falling against Francis, and laughed. "I don't think I'm very good at this," he said, which—if Francis was being honest—was an understatement. Matt's footing was clumsy at best, but his smiling face was adorable. "You'll catch me if I fall, won't you?"

Francis smiled. "Of course."

Francis spun Matt around in wide circles to an imagined, lilting rhythm. Then, dramatically, he dipped him low, taking the majority of Matt's weight, and leaned down. It might've been his imagination, but Francis thought that Matt's eyes strayed to his lips, waiting to be kissed. He leaned down further, testing the boy, but Matt didn't flinch this time. His lips parted. _Finally_! he thought, closing his eyes. Then—

"If you're well enough to dance around like a bloody git, you're more than well enough to leave my fucking house, frog-eater," Arthur snapped, climbing the rise. Like a big, happy-go-lucky sheepdog, Al lopped behind him.

Matt fumbled out of Francis' grasp. "I thought some fresh air would do him well," he said, taking the blame. "We were just fooling around a bit."

"I'm sure," said Arthur, unsmiling. He glared suspiciously at Francis, who smiled cockily behind Matt's back. "I was going to have Alfred accompany me into town for the afternoon, but, Mathew, I think I would rather have you come instead. Alfred can stay here and take care of our _guest_. Is that alright with you, Alfred?"

"Sure," said Al, cracking his knuckles.

Francis rolled his eyes. He smiled at Matt, who shrugged apologetically and left with Arthur, who continued to glare over-the-shoulder as he herded his son away. _Such a dramatic family_, he thought. _They certainly like to issue threats_, _and _not_ subtly_. He eyed Al, who was cracking his neck, pretending to limber-up, but Francis knew it was an action meant to intimidate. He sighed. As much as he enjoyed provoking the Kirkland family outright, he decided that it might be more strategic to attack this time by a subtle surrender. Smiling in a friendly way, he said: "So Alfred, what are you making for supper tonight? I'd be more than happy to help if you need a hand in the kitchen. I'd love to repay your family for all their kindness and generosity."

* * *

Matt returned to find Al standing beside Francis at the big, cast-iron stovetop; Francis holding a spoon to Al's lips. A sweet, mouth-watering aroma filled the kitchen, which was in a mild state of disarray. "Well, what do you think?" said Francis, removing the spoon. "Bon, oui?"

Al licked his lips. "Yes— oh yes, definitely good," he grinned. "But I think it needs more salt."

Al reached for the salt-shaker, but Francis grabbed his forearm to stop him. "Non," he wagged his finger. "You're cooking like an Englishman, Alfred. Salt is _not_ the only ingredient. You need to layer the flavours—"

"What the bloody-hell are you doing?" Arthur asked, too stunned to be angry. "What have you done to my spice rack, you've emptied it! And for what— one meal?!"

"Ah!" Francis rapped Arthur's knuckles with the wooden spoon. "Too many cooks, Monsieur Kirkland. Just sit down, supper will be served soon." He winked at Matt, who hid a grin behind his hand.

"Mattie, you've _got_ to try this! It's, like, indescribable!" Al raved happily.

Matt smiled. _Well played_, _Francis_, he thought, _trying to win Al with food_. "I'll be right back," he promised his brother, heading into his bedroom for fresh clothes. As he was changing he caught his reflection in the mirror, still smiling. He finger-combed his hair and pulled it into a short ponytail at the base of his neck. Then he returned to the kitchen, where Francis was disagreeing with Arthur about place-settings and Al was sneaking another spoonful.

"That's my _good_ china!" Arthur argued. "It's only for special occasions."

"My food _is_ a special occasion, especially in this household," Francis countered, laying down plates. "Trust me, Monsieur. You might hate me, but you won't hate my cooking."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Bloody wanker," he grumbled, sitting down at the table's head. Matt joined him. "I suppose you think this is funny?" Arthur asked, nodding to the chefs. "Just because we eat his food—nothing special, I'm sure—doesn't mean he can stay. Tomorrow he's gone, understand? And I won't hear any arguments otherwise."

"Yes, sir," said Matt. But even Arthur's sullen, half-hearted threat couldn't dampen Matt's mood. He was having too much fun watching Francis and Al dance around the stovetop, stirring pots, adding pinches of spice, and turning dials. Al looked like he was having fun, and, at the very least, Matt would thank Francis for that.

Dinner was fantastic, even Arthur admitted it—though, begrudgingly. Al and Matt both helped themselves to second helpings, and then drooled over dessert. Matt answered Francis' question: "Do you like it?" by moaning loudly in pleasure. No offense to Arthur's cooking, but he had _never_ tasted anything so rich with flavour. After supper, he volunteered to do the dishes, but Francis insisted on helping. Arthur moved to sit at the kitchen table to have his tea, pretending to read, while actually—and not subtly—monitoring the dish-washing. Francis chatted while they scrubbed pots and pans. He gestured a lot, imitating Al's first cooking lesson, which made Matt laugh. Once or twice he felt the Frenchman's hand grasp his underwater, squeezing gently, and every time it did Matt's heart skipped a beat. It took a while longer than it should have to finish, but eventually everything was cleaned and put away. Then Arthur suggested they move into the parlour, and, though he didn't actually invite Francis to join them, he didn't protest when he did. Al sprawled out on the bigger couch, happily rubbing his stomach and claiming fatigue. Francis followed Matt to the opposite couch, but Arthur sat down before he could, forcing Francis to sit alone in an armchair. Nobody spoke much, but the silence wasn't uncomfortable. Francis read a book that Matt had lent him; Matt took a pocketknife and dragged it under the surface of driftwood, shaping it; Arthur continued his needlework; and Al fell peacefully asleep.

"What're you making?" Francis asked after a while, nodding at Matt's hands.

Matt shrugged self-consciously. "Oh, nothing really. I'm not a great sculptor, it's just a hobby," he dismissed.

"You don't give yourself enough credit, love," said Arthur matter-of-factly. He eyed Francis and then nodded to the fireplace mantle, where several maple-leaves and a bouquet of English roses had been whittled from driftwood.

"You're more artistic than I thought," Francis said. "But that one doesn't look like a rose, it looks like a lily."

"It's nothing," Matt denied, hiding it from view. "Just a hobby— _ouch_!" Both Arthur and Francis flinched in surprise. "Shit!" Matt cursed, lifting his hand to the light. His thumb was bleeding. "Sorry," he said, sucking the cut. "I'll be right back." Leaving his half-carved French lily, he escaped into the kitchen and ran ice-cold water over his hand. "Shit," he repeated, berating his stupidity. Adept with a knife, he had _never_ cut himself before.

A soft knock met his ears. Francis was standing in the doorway, knuckles on the wood. "Need any help?" he asked, eyeing Matt's wounded hand. He looked worried. "You're not going to need stitches, are you?"

Matt found his concern touching, but unnecessary. "No, of course not."

"Let me see," said Francis, joining him at the sink. He held his hand out expectantly, then gently took Matt's.

"See? It's nothing," Matt started to pull away, but Francis held him. He made Matt sit down at the table while he searched the cupboards for a first-aid kit. "Really, I'm fine. It doesn't even hurt—"

"Quiet," Francis ordered. "You've been taking care of me, now it's my turn." Deftly, Francis cleaned the cut with medicinal alcohol—which _did_ hurt; Matt hissed through his teeth—and then wrapped a cloth bandage around his thumb, tying it painlessly, finished. But Francis didn't let go. He held Matt's hand, entwining their fingers together. In return, Matt applied the softest pressure and met the Frenchman's lusty gaze. _I won't run this time_, he thought, not when Francis looked directly at him and huskily said: "Mathieu, I want so badly to kiss you."

Matt was less shocked then he would've admitted, but he heard himself say: "I want you to kiss me, but—"

Francis didn't hesitate. He seized Matt's lips, hot and hard. He cupped the back of Matt's head with his free hand, threading his fingers through fine strands of pale-blonde hair, urging the boy closer, sinking deeper into his sweet, soft lips. The Frenchman slipped his slick tongue into Matt's mouth and sucked, moaning in shameless arousal. Matt gasped: "_Francis_!" His heart was racing; so was Francis'. Matt could feel it as he reached up, guided by instinct, and placed his hands on Francis' chest—over the lily— then moved to his neck. Briefly they broke apart, and then desperately reconnected, ignoring the threat in the adjacent room. Kiss after kiss, Francis' hands roamed Matt's body: his torso, then his thighs. He lifted the boy up onto his lap and dragged his lips down Matt's slender neck. He yanked open Matt's shirt and sucked on his arched collarbone. Matt tangled his hands in Francis' long hair, trying to stifle his gasping voice. Blissfully he closed his eyes, feeling full of the Frenchman's embrace. Feeling wanted.

"Mathieu," Francis whispered, kissing his snow-white skin. "Je te veux, mon chéri." _I want you_.

Matt's heart was beating so loudly that he was sure Francis would hear. But Al and Arthur were sitting in the next room, expecting both he and Francis to return soon. If he didn't stop himself now, he wouldn't be able to later. He would lose himself to the Frenchman's erotic touch. Regretfully, he lowered his hand to Francis' chest and pushed. "No," he shook his head. "We can't— not now." In indication, he glanced at the closed door. "I'm sorry— _mm_!"  
Francis kissed him hungrily. Then he pressed his forehead to Matt's, and whispered: "Me too."


	5. Chapter Four

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**"French Perfume" – Great Big Sea**

**FRENCH PERFUME**

* * *

**FOUR**

Matt awoke early, partially because Al's weight was lying on top of him—his brother was sleep-talking—and partially because the window-shutters were rattling. The wind was howling loudly. Disentangling Al's limbs, Matt crawled out of bed and moved to the window, drawing back the curtains. It was just after sunrise, but already the sky was a dark, foreboding grey: a storm brewing. Awake now, Matt left Al's bedroom and wandered into the kitchen, where he was surprised to find Francis. The Frenchman smiled in greeting. "Bonjour, chéri."

"Bonjour," Matt replied. There was a strong brew of hot coffee sitting on the woodstove, which Matt poured into a mug. Then he sat down at the table across from Francis and sipped it. He really wasn't hungry, but holding the hot mug felt good, reassuring. They sat in silence for a while, both knowing what the other was thinking but neither voicing it: As soon as Arthur woke up, Francis would have to leave. Matt felt empty, as if he was losing something. _But how can you lose something you never had_? Discretely, he looked at Francis. Pale sunlight bathed his figure, making his ash-blonde hair look silver, catching flecks of stubble on his angular jaw. He was leaning back, a cigarette hanging between his fingers. _He looks mature_, Matt thought, then felt childish for thinking it. He admired Francis' confidence, that suave attitude and lazy half-smile. It excited him and made him feel wanted, like it had last night.

Francis smiled and, reaching out, took Matt's hand. "Mathieu—"

"I don't want you to leave," Matt blurted, feeling overwhelmed. "I know it's not safe, but we've only just met."

In agreement Francis leaned toward him, closing the gap.

* * *

Good morning!" Arthur burst into the kitchen, sounding chipper. In reflex Matt pulled back, and Francis cursed the Englishman's timing. He saw the glint in Arthur's forest-green eyes, narrowed in victory. Obviously he did not share Matt's reservations about Francis' departure. "Sleep well?" he asked, grinning. Francis resented his host's pettiness, pretending to ignore the tension as he poured himself a mug of coffee. "How are you feeling today, frog? I hope you enjoyed freeloading in my house. It's such a pity you're a wanted fugitive, wherever will you go?" He sipped hot tea, feigning concern. But, though his tone was mocking, those eyes were hard and unyielding. "I think it's time for you to uphold your part of our agreement," he said, lowering the mug. "You're well enough now, it's time for you to leave."

"But Dad, he doesn't have anywhere to go—"

"Quiet, Mathew. Mr. Bonnefoi and I agreed, didn't we?"

Francis tried to ignore the hurt look on Matt's face. His heart clenched, but he kept his expression as vague as possible. Silently he stood. He didn't have any belongings to collect, or any reason left to linger in Arthur's house. _Such a nice family_—constant threats aside—_I'll miss them_. _I'll miss Mathieu_. The boy he had unwittingly fallen in love with. _Is this love_? he thought, feeling desperate, _then why does it hurt so much_? _I want to take Mathieu with me_._ I want to fight Arthur Kirkland and steal Matt away_, just as he had joked. But he knew that it was foolish, just heartsickness talking. Instead, he forced himself to say: "Merci, Monsieur Kirkland, for your generous hospitality. Perhaps someday I can return the favour."

"Thanks aren't necessary, frog. Just leave and we'll call it even."

Francis swallowed. "Au revoir, Mathieu—"

A loud crash of thunder interrupted, followed quickly by a crack of bright lightning. Then, like a torrent, the sky opened its angry, grey clouds and dropped a deluge on Spanish Room.

For a tense minute nobody spoke. Then Matt said: "Dad, you can't make him go outside in _this_!" he pointed to the window. "At least let him stay until the rain stops."

Francis could see the struggle on Arthur's face, glee becoming rage. He could see the Englishman fighting to ignore his conscience and chuck Francis out into the storm, regardless of the danger. Then he groaned. "Fine!" he relented, and Francis sighed. He hadn't realized that he was holding his breath. "Stay until the bloody storm stops, but you're _not_ spending another night under my roof, is that clear? I don't care if the storm blows all bloody night. I won't have you—" CRACK! The kitchen's electric lights flickered weakly and died, leaving the room cold and dim. The shadows from the lashing rain crawled over them, giving each figure a sinister cast. It was quiet. Then Arthur cursed: "Fuck." Purposefully he stomped to the front door and poked his head outside, squinting through the low hanging fog. Francis could see very little of the landscape; it was quite dark. "Mathew," said Arthur. "Go and wake up your brother. The bloody lighthouse has been struck."

Matt nodded, as if this was routine. Francis frowned: "What does it have to do with you? You're not keepers."

"It's the only lighthouse near Spanish Room," Matt said, retreating into the hallway. Francis heard him call for Al. "Al, get up. It's storming, we've got to start the generator in the lighthouse."

"Hmm? Yeah, okay," Al replied sleepily, yawning.

Then Matt reappeared. He grabbed a heavy, oil-skin coat from a hook near the door and pulled it on. "The lighthouse serves as a beacon for ships at sea, it guides them into the harbour-mouth to safety. It stands in indication of how close the shore is, how close the rocks are. The light cuts through the fog and storm," he explained.

"Yes, I know the purpose of a lighthouse," Francis said, half-amused; half-annoyed. He felt anxious, staring as Matt tugged his boots on. "But why are _you_ going out there, chéri? You're not lighthouse keepers," he repeated. "It isn't your responsibility, is it?"

"Yes, because ours is the closest house—the only house, really—to the harbour's west-end. It's not difficult. If the light goes out then we have to start the generator." He shrugged. "It's just that it usually takes two people to do."

On cue, Al staggered to the entrance. Half-dressed and yawning loudly, he groped for his coat and boots.

"Can I help?" Francis offered, drawing closer. CRACK! Lightning lit the room.

"No," said Arthur, blocking him. "You and I are going to wait right here."

* * *

Francis hated it, but he didn't feel entirely safe alone with the Englishman. "Sit," Arthur said curtly, inviting him back into the kitchen. He circled around Francis' to the table's head and sat, his arms crossed. His gaze flickered behind the Frenchman, keeping watch on the west-facing window. Francis felt as if he was about to be interrogated. Sure enough: "Have you told Mathew why you're wanted?" Arthur asked. Francis shook his head. "Tell me then. I have a right to know what sort of man my son's infatuated with," he added knowledgeably. "Are you a thief, a murderer— a rapist?" he asked darkly. "What have you done to earn your reputation, pirate?"

Francis sighed. "Nothing," he said honestly. "I'm not even a real pirate, it was a just misunderstanding." He touched the brand on his forearm. "I'm a smuggler, plain and simple. I transport stolen cargo, but the most_ I've_ ever stolen is a kiss. I promise."

"Then why are you letting Mathew believe you're something you're not? Do you take some sick pleasure from toying with young boys? Do you use this fanciful pirate facade to seduce them?"

"Non."

"Then why let him believe it?"

"Because I like the way he looks at me," Francis said. _Why lie_? _I'm leaving soon. At least someone will know the truth after I'm gone_. "I like pretending to be someone I'm not, someone more exciting. Someone who didn't grow-up in a foster home, all alone, with nothing. I think I've fallen in love with your son, Kirkland, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't envy him. This," he gestured to the kitchen and the house in general, indicative of the family, "is what I want. A home with Mathieu beside me. Is it wrong to daydream about what I can't have?"

"You _know_ you can't have him?" Arthur looked surprised.

"Of course I know, I'm not a fool. I know he belongs here, and I don't."

"Then tell him that," said Arthur sternly. "Don't let him think you might come back. If you have to break his heart to do it, so be it. It's for his own good."

"Those are harsh words coming from someone who loves him."

"They're harsh _because_ I love him. If you do too, you'll leave him alone."

It felt cold in the kitchen as silence stretched between the two men, both waiting anxiously for the teenagers to return. The longer it took, the more uncomfortable Francis felt. He kept glancing at the clock, watching the minutes tick indiscriminately by. He could see Arthur's eyes flicking more frequently to the window, confirming Francis' fears: _It shouldn't be taking this long_. Finally, just as the two men were coming to a silent agreement, a comradeship born of worry, Al burst in through the front door.

"Where is Mathieu?!"—"Where's Mathew?" both men demanded, then stopped. Al's teeth were clenched and his face was screwed-up in pain. He was clutching his shoulder, squeezing tightly. A kerosene lantern swung from his wrist. "I'm alright," he panted, fooling nobody. "I just— _ah_, _fuck_!" he cried-out, letting the door slam behind him. "I went upstairs to re-position the stupid, fucking light, but it's so fucking dark in there and the fucking building's a fucking wreck. I fell from the top deck and pierced my fucking shoulder on a— _ah_! goddamned bolt," he explained as Arthur led him into the kitchen.

"Sit down, let me see," Arthur fussed, removing the coat. Peeling back Al's blood-soaked sleeve, he inspected the wound. "Just a flesh wound," he sighed in relief, "but it needs stitches, you're losing a lot of blood. Don't go woozy on me, Alfred. Keep pressure on it," he ordered, then disappeared into the parlour.

Francis soaked a cloth and pressed it tightly against Al's shoulder. Al cursed in pain, squeezing his eyes shut, but didn't protest. The boy was white-faced and sweating, soaked from the downpour. Francis felt sympathy for him, but his focus was elsewhere. "Alfred, where's Mathieu?" he repeated anxiously.

"At the fucking lighthouse," Al growled. "I told him to stay, to fix the goddamned thing. But he'll— _fuck_!"

"Come on now, don't be so melodramatic," Arthur said, returning. The joke was hollow though, his freckled face was nearly as white as Al's. But Francis could see the strength in his demeanor, determined not to panic. He held a sterile needle and thread—not exactly a physician's tools, but Al couldn't wait for a doctor. "Let's get you cleaned and stitched up, pet," Arthur said. "This is going to sting," he held a bottle of medicinal alcohol, "but heroes don't cry."

"AH! Son-of-a-bitch!" Al yelled.

It was the last thing Francis heard as he slipped outside.

* * *

Matt groped around in the darkness, feeling his way by memory down into the lighthouse's base. He had sent back the lantern with Al, thinking the worst for his brother's sake. If Al collapsed then at least Arthur would see him. But it left Matt blind in the windowless, concrete room. _It's a good thing I'm not afraid of the dark_, he thought humourlessly. It took a while, but finally he reached the generator's bulk. It was an old piece of equipment, falling into disrepair, but if Matt could get it going it would be the difference between danger and safety for the sailors at sea. The Kirkland family had never failed in their responsibility to guard the coast, and Matt wasn't about to blacken that record now.

"Alright, move!" he yanked the crank, pulling up and then down. It was heavy, stiff with rust. The generator gurgled momentarily, and then died. "Shit! This is why it takes two people," he grumbled. He clenched his teeth and pulled harder, but it was futile. In anger, he kicked the machine.

CRACK! He heard lightning, and then—THUMP!

Matt paused, listening. "Hello?!" he called, but received no answer. _Just the storm_, he decided, and turned back to the generator. "C'mon you lazy son-of-a-bitch, why won't you _start_?!"

He nearly screamed when a voice said: "You're not pulling fast enough."

Matt whipped around and saw a tall, bulky figure descending the stairs: Francis, wearing Arthur's coat and carrying the lantern. The butter-yellow light bathed his handsome face in a soft glow. He was soaked, but he smiled. Matt snapped: "You scared the hell out of me!"

Francis blinked in surprise. "I thought you heard the door slam upstairs. I called-out to you but you didn't answer me. I was worried." His eyes slid over Matt, bent-over the generator's crank. "A lot of good that'll do. You're not turning it fast enough. Let me help." He removed the coat and tossed it down beside Matt's, then placed the lantern on a three-legged stool nearby, positioning it so they could see. He approached the generator and leant over Matt, grabbing a hold of the crank. "Ready?" Matt nodded. "Pull!"

Matt yanked hard, throwing his shoulders up against Francis' chest and then shoving down. "_Sacrebleu_!" said the Frenchman in surprise; Matt snorted. It was hard work, but together they got the crank turning fast enough to start the generator, which grumbled angrily. Matt took over from there: a flicked switch and a turned dial, and then he took Francis upstairs to ensure their efforts weren't in vain. "Finally," Matt sighed in satisfaction. The lighthouse's beacon was lit, cutting like a bright blade through the fog. "Thanks," Matt said, facing Francis. "I didn't think— _mm_!"

"Désolé, couldn't help it," Francis said, kissing Matt. "We're finally alone."

Matt pressed his hands flat against Francis' chest. "You're soaking wet," he said quietly. Boldly he started to unbutton the Frenchman's shirt. When he chanced a glace up, he saw Francis watching him intently. That lusty blue-eyed gaze made Matt feel like a blushing boy. _But I'm not_, he told himself. He dragged his hands over the curvilinear muscles of Francis' chest, slipping his fingers coyly beneath the shallow waist of his trousers, unbuttoning them. Then he paused—and Francis took over. He wrapped his hand around the back of Matt's neck and pulled him into a hungry kiss. He felt Francis' fingers dancing over his cusped collarbone as he undressed him, moving slow and sinuously. _He's doing it on purpose_, _he doesn't want to scare me_, Matt realized. But he didn't need coaxing. _I'm not a child_! _I'll prove that I want this just as much as he does_. Following the faint line of hair from Francis' navel, Matt plunged his hand into the man's trousers and squeezed. Francis gasped in surprise, but as he exhaled it became a moan. He lifted the boy into his arms. Matt wrapped his legs around the Francis' waist and, almost clumsily, he laid the boy down on a long, empty table. He pressed his yielding lips to Matt's skin:

"Je te veux, mon chéri," he whispered, dipping his head.

Matt felt Francis pull off his trousers, then: "Ah! _O-oh— a-hah— nn-o-oh_—" He breathed fast, squeezing his eyes closed, clenching a fistful of Francis' soft curls. "_F-rance_—! _Ah_! _Francis_,_ I_—"

"Relax." Francis kissed the sensitive skin of his inner-thigh. The smile in his voice betrayed his amusement. He was enjoying Matt's inexperience, but Matt felt embarrassed. He writhed as Francis worked his stiff cock, swelling between the Frenchman's lips; the thought alone was arousing. So was the sudden feeling of Francis hard cock against his leg. Matt moaned, unable to contain his voice, and was rewarded when Francis' voice—groaning deeply in reply—vibrated. "I— Francis, I— _ah_!" Matt's body trembled and his cock released. "I'm s-sorry," he gasped, cheeks flushed.

Francis chuckled, licking his lips. "That was fast," he teased the boy. But before Matt could reply, Francis' expression changed. Matt could practically feel his hungry eyes drinking in the sight of the aroused teenager, and the laughter left his face, replaced with something more primordial. He said "Mathieu" as if tasting Matt's name for the first time. Then he leaned up, kissed the boy—the Frenchman's tongue was salty—and drew their bodies together in preparation. Matt's fingernails dug into Francis' shoulders. "Je t'aime," Francis whispered. _I love you_.

Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn't, but Matt's body wouldn't forgive him if he pulled away now. "Oui," he said weakly. _Yes_,_ I love—_ Francis pushed his cock into the boy's body, forcing out a cry: "AH!"

Francis paused. He kissed Matt: "It's alright, chéri."

Matt whimpered, an embarrassingly high-pitched sound, and clenched Francis' shoulders as the Frenchman started to move, a slow, rocking rhythm. It was cautious, delicate. "I'm not— _ah_— fragile!" Matt gasped. He hadn't meant to say it aloud. He was afraid he had insulted Francis, the Frenchman paused in surprise. Then the force of his body became faster, harder, until Matt was crying-out, tears beaded in his eyes. It hurt more than he wanted to admit, but it was what he wanted, this feeling of closeness, of being wanted. It was intoxicating. _I want you_, Francis had said.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Matt repeated it now: "Je te veux! _I want you_—!" Then everything got fuzzy.

* * *

Matt opened his eyes. It had only been a minute, he thought, but Francis was lying bent-over the table beside him. His skin was pricked with goose-bumps, breathing hard. Matt's body felt limp, growing stiff. "What happened?" he asked softly, blinking. He felt dizzy.

Francis, cheek resting on his crossed arms, grinned in exhaustion. "You blacked-out, just for a minute," he reassured him. "But you missed a _very good_ minute." He leaned closer and kissed Matt's shoulder, cold now. Then he pushed himself onto his elbows and stood up straight. "Très bon, mon chéri."

Matt struggled into a sitting position, his legs dangling down. He grasped Francis for support, regaining his balance. For a minute he didn't move, just sat there listening to the rain and waiting for his heart to slow. The storm had abated, no longer raging. The rain was still coming down in sheets, but he hadn't heard a clap of thunder or a crack of lightning for a while, not that he would have noticed. Francis stood between Matt's spread legs, holding his sides. Tenderly he rested his cheek against Matt's silky, sweat-dampened hair. _This feels like a dream_, Matt thought, pain aside. _The storm_,_ the isolation of the lighthouse_,_ the two lovers_— _we're the makings of a lame romance_. Despite himself, he smiled. It might've been a line, a pirate's lie, but Francis had said: _I love you_.

"Why me?" Matt asked softly. He hadn't meant to say it. He shouldn't have said it, but his thoughts were wild and it just slipped out. "Why did you choose me and not Al? He's the big, strong one, the attractive one. He doesn't look leeched of colour. He draws everyone's attention, and why not?" He picturing his brother. "He has so much personality. Why not seduce him? Is it because I'm the easier one?" he asked, suddenly afraid of the answer.

Francis pulled back. He studied Matt's honest face curiously, looking somewhat hurt: "Is that how you think of yourself, Mathieu? As Alfred's shadow?"

Matt shrugged, staring at the floor. "The stronger the light the darker the shadow, right? I don't really mind," he added. "I'm not suited to the spotlight like Al is. I know that's not where I belong."

Gently, Francis lifted his chin. "And where _do_ you belong?"

* * *

Francis felt uncertain—how strange it was to feel love and heartbreak simaltaneously. He watched Matt dress from the corner of his eye, pulling clothes on over his snow-white skin, showing discrete signs of abuse: pale bruises where Francis had clutched him tightly, and pink love-bites. He loved the boy's silky curls: _French hair_, he smiled, watching the natural highlights shine in the lantern light. _He's so beautiful_,_ so sweet_. _I love everything about him_, he thought liberally. Then he sighed. _But I can't have him_, _I can't take him with me_.

"Where do you belong?" Francis had asked him. In reply, Matt had kissed him. And in that moment Francis knew that he had to leave before the boy got too attached. _I shouldn't have fucked him_, he berated himself. _The last thing I want to do is hurt him_,_ like I'm hurting now_.

"Don't let him think you might come back," Arthur had warned. "If you have to break his heart to do it, so be it." But Francis didn't _want_ to break Matt's heart, nobody deserved that. It was too painful a thought.

Together they dawned their coats and pulled up the hoods, then let the lantern's light guide them through the heavy rainfall back to the house. Francis held Matt close, wanting to feel the boy's weight, wanting to memorize his slight body. He watched fat raindrops slide over Matt's cheeks, his long, wet eyelashes clumped. The sky's greyness made his eyes look exceptionally violet. Suddenly, those pretty eyes grew wide, pupils shrinking in panic. Alarmed, Francis followed Matt's gaze and his stomach flipped. Two horses were tied to the porch, and two red-coated officers were standing beneath the overhang talking seriously to Arthur. Al was holding his injured shoulder and shouting.

"Dad?!" Matt shouted in reflex. Fortunately, the rain drowned out his voice. "Go!" he said, pushing Francis. "You've got to hurry and go, hide somewhere!" he panicked, whipping his head around. "I'll find you later— just go!"

"Okay," Francis said, but Matt was already pulling away. He cast a worried look at Francis, and then hurried up to the house. Francis ran in the opposite direction, heading for the woods. He hid himself behind a tree, watching the scene from a distance. "Merde!" he cursed as the redcoats handcuffed Arthur. "This is all my fault."

* * *

But _why_?!" Matt asked, grabbing the RCMP officer's forearm. "Why are you arresting him? He's got nothing to do with— whatever you're searching for," he caught himself. "Please don't take him!"

"I'm sorry, son," said Officer Gilroy. "But we have reason to suspect your father's involvement in the illegal transport of stolen property, as a possible accomplice."

"Oh, bloody-hell," Arthur growled. "Just _what_ crime is that? I'm a fucking landowner, has someone brought a complaint against me? I've never stolen a thing in my life."

"So you've said," said Officer McKee, holding Arthur's bicep. "You're being taken in for questioning—"

"FOR WHAT?!" Al raged. "You people think you're so important! You can't just—"

"Yes, actually, we _can_," said McKee, challenging Al's glare. "I'm warning you both"—he looked from Matt to Al—"if either of you cause trouble or try to stop us then we'll arrest you too for resistance."

Al opened his mouth to argue, but Arthur said: "Alfred, stop." It was an unyielding order and grudgingly Al obeyed. "I'll be fine. Take care of your brother," Arthur said as they walked him down the stairs into the rain. Matt thought it was a strange thing to say, since he and Al were twins. But Arthur's green eyes held something else in their depths, a message that Al seemed to understand. He nodded and stood stiffly, watching the RCMP take Arthur away.

"_What the fuck_?!" Matt yelled, anger and panic fighting for dominance. "What happened, Al?!"

Al's bright eyes slid to Matt, looking feral. He was pale and naked to the waist; a reddening bandage was wrapped meticulously around his shoulder and upper-torso; his wet, feathery hair was standing on-end. Ignoring Matt's question, voice low and threatening, he said: "Where is he?"


	6. Chapter Five

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**"French Perfume" – Great Big Sea**

**FRENCH PERFUME**

* * *

**FIVE**

GET OUT! You goddamned fucking cocksucker— _get out_!" Al shouted, throwing a plate at Francis' head. "I'll call the fucking Mounties back, I swear! I'll get you fucking hanged, you fucking _Frenchman_!" he yelled, sounding uncannily like Arthur. He raised another plate to fire, but Matt grabbed it. Al winced in pain. "Get off, Mattie! He's the reason Dad got arrested! If they throw him in jail I'll fucking kill you!" he threatened Francis.

"Al, stop it! It's not his fault— _ouch_!" Matt's legs buckled under him, still weak. He grabbed the counter for support, drawling Al's attention. His cornflower-blue eyes grew wide in realization:

"Oh my God, you let the fucking pirate fuck you?!" he said inconsiderately. Whipping around, he pierced Francis with an outraged glare: "What're you still doing here?! I told you to fucking leave! Haven't you gotten what you wanted? My Dad's in jail and my brother's—" Al seethed. "You fucking lecher! Just _get out_!" He threw the plate.

Francis ducked. "Alfred, please stop," he said, holding up his hands. "I can fix this—"

"Can you give my brother back his virginity, you pervert?! You should've let him drown," Al snapped at Matt.

"Al, stop blaming him!" Matt yelled in return. "It was _my_ choice, understand? And I don't regret it. Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I don't know what I'm doing? You and Dad have got to stop treating me like a fucking child! I _don't_ need you to protect me, I'm sixteen-years-old!"

"Yeah, who literally got fucked because you're too stupid to see that he's fucking playing with you!"

"He's not—"

"Open your fucking eyes, Matt! He doesn't want you. He _never wanted you_, he just wanted to _fuck you_! And now he has so he can fucking _leave_." He shot a nasty look at Francis.

Francis sighed in exasperation. "Alfred," he said loudly, before the brothers could continue shouting at each other. "Just listen to me. I'm going to fix this. No I can't... take back what I've done," he said delicately, "but I _can_ help your father by giving myself up. If that's what I have to do—"

"No!" Matt panicked. He shook his head. "No, you can't. They'll hang you."

The fear on Matt's face touched Francis' heart. _Thank-you for loving me_, he thought sadly, _thank-you for caring if I die_. "Mathieu, it's the only way to clear your father's name—"

"But it won't!" Matt insisted. "If you turn yourself in now, right after they've arrested him, they'll assume he's been involved with you the whole time. It would be like confirming that he's your accomplice. It won't solve anything, it'll only get you killed."

"Sounds good to me," Al grumbled.

Matt ignored him. "There's got to be something else we can do, some other way to prove Dad's innocence." His brow was creased, his mind racing. Absently he twisted a pale curl around his finger in anxiety. Al slumped back against the counter beside him, looking grumpy, but thoughtful, both boys trying to concoct a plot to save their father.

Despite the bleak circumstance, Francis felt a stab of envy. Arthur Kirkland was—a charmless, hot-tempered Englishman, but—a lucky man to have such devoted sons. Francis didn't even know his parents' names. _I'm sorry_, he thought guiltily. He hadn't meant to hurt the Kirkland family. He had only wanted a quiet taste of normality, of the mundane day-to-day that Matt thought was so boring. _Nobody knows what they've got until it's gone_— He stopped. "Mathieu, Alfred," he said suddenly. "I have an idea."

* * *

Matt didn't like the plan, it was too risky. If Francis was caught the Mounties would—He clenched his fists. He and Al led Francis to the boathouse (the rain, such a deluge before, was only spitting now), where Arthur's pride-and-joy was floating. He wouldn't be happy when he learned that they had given his boat to a smuggler, a would-be pirate. It was a pristine fishing vessel, made for close-shore sailing rather than open-water, but, short of stealing someone else's boat, it was all they had. Francis would take it and sail back the way he had come, past the Mounties' boats, and then Matt and Al would report their father's boat stolen. They would make it look as if Francis—the dangerous, suicidal pirate-smuggler—had used Arthur's arrest as an opportunity to rob the innocent family and make his escape. Once Francis was gone Matt and Al would destroy all evidence of his presence, which, besides burning his clothes, would be easy, and, when no evidence against him could be found, Arthur would be released.

"Remember, you _must_ let them see you," Matt said.

"I know," Francis replied. He lifted a heavy satchel full of supplies into the boat. "Don't worry, Mathieu, I'm not going to leave you fatherless. It's my fault and I'm going to fix it. I'll make it look like I took advantage of you—"

"That's not a lie," growled Al, arms crossed. Grudgingly, he had only agreed to the plan for Arthur's sake.

"—and robbed your family. They'll believe it," Francis finished.

Matt shifted. "It'll be dangerous. They're already looking for you, if they catch you—"

"They won't," said Francis, flashing Matt a confident grin. "They've never caught me before."

But Matt didn't return the gesture. He felt anxious. _What if something goes wrong_? He shifted from foot-to-foot, flexing his fingers. Even if everything went exactly according to plan; even if Francis escaped unscathed and the Mounties released Arthur— _Francis will be gone. I'll never see him again_. It hurt. He didn't want his lover to leave._ We've only just met_! _Maybe that's why I let him fuck me_. He had been wondering it since they had left the lighthouse. _I knew he would leave_,_ I've always known._ _Maybe that's why I did it_, _because I wanted to keep a piece of him with me_, he thought, feeling foolish. His cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

"Alfred?" said Francis politely. "I wonder if I could say au revoir to Mathieu in private— se il vous plaît?"

Al's cornflower-blue eyes were cloudy, glaring at Francis, feeling betrayed no doubt. He looked between the lovers, from Francis to Matt's beseeching face: _Please_, _Al_. Matt could see the struggle on Al's face: he had promised to protect him in Arthur's place. "If you try anything, Frenchie, I'll sink the goddamn boat with you on it," he threatened. "You've got five-minutes, then I'm dragging Mattie out." Pulling up his coat's collar, he left to wait outside.

"Alfred, thank-you for everything," Francis said sincerely. Then he drew Matt into his arms and hugged him tight. Matt thought he could feel the Frenchman's heartbeat, _but it's just my imagination_. Unlike earlier, there were too many layers between them. He held Francis, clutching the fold's of Arthur's coat, wasting their last minutes together in silence because he couldn't think of anything to say.

Finally, Francis said: "Mathieu," and lifted Matt's chin. He kissed him. "I'd take you with me if I could."

Matt swallowed a sob. "I know. I'd go if I could, but"—_my family_,_ my home_, _my life is here_—"I can't."

* * *

I can't," Matt said, tears beading in those beautiful violet eyes.

Francis hated to see Matt look so sad, so forlorn. _What must I look like_? He had never been particularly good at hiding his emotions: _Why be ashamed of what you're feeling_? he had always thought. But this wasn't shame, it was hurt. He inhaled deeply, trying to hide the pain. _It'll only hurt Mathieu more otherwise_. But he hadn't truly realized just how badly he wanted to take Matt with him—how serious he was, harbouring hope—until Matt had said: "I can't."

"I know, chéri," he returned, swallowing grief. He tried not to think about what he was leaving behind, but it was useless: the picture of Matt's tear-filled eyes; his laugh; his kind smile and soft touch; the pure bliss and intensity he had felt when— _Now's not the time to think about that_, he stopped himself. "Mathieu," he said suddenly. He had to make sure that Matt understood: "What Alfred said before about me never truly wanting you— he's wrong, chéri. I've never wanted anyone more, and I really do, well... Je t'aime," he said softly. Maybe he shouldn't have said it aloud, but he didn't want Matt to think he had been used. If nothing else, Francis could give him that. _This could've been something wonderful. It could have been a lasting love_, he thought, kissing Matt for the last time.

He heard the boy whisper: "Je t'aime," and then he pulled away. "How will I know you haven't been caught and killed?" Matt asked softly, worried.

"You'll know I'm alive, I promise." He touched Matt's cheek. Then said: "Au revoir, Mathieu Kirkland."

* * *

Matt looked miserable. Al's stomach clenched in pity. Together they stood on the dock and watched the small fishing boat slip silently away, swallowed by the thick, low-hanging fog. Francis looked like a ghost at the helm. Al chanced a sidelong glance at his brother, wanting to comfort him, but he didn't know what to do. He wouldn't pretend to know how Matt was feeling, or even that he forgave him for lying. Yes, he had disapproved of Francis' advances; yes, he had been—_was_—angry about the Frenchman taking advantage of Matt, but it seemed petty in comparison to Matt's grief. "Mattie?" he asked, reaching toward him. "You going to be okay?"

Matt nodded. He took a deep breath and wiped his face, facing Al. "Let's make this look like a robbery."

Al clenched his fists. "You sure about this?"

"Yes," Matt said, arching his shoulders in preparation. "C'mon Al, I know you want to hit me so do it."

"I don't _want_ to hit you," Al corrected, and then decked Matt square in the jaw. The impact forced Matt back. "I wanted to hit _him_," he said honestly, nodding to the water, "but I can't." He sighed. "Look, I am sorry Mattie—"

"Let's not do this now," Matt interrupted, raising his fist. "Just stand still."

Matt split Al's lip; Al gave Matt a black-eye. Then, bruised and sore and wet, they returned to the house and burned Francis' clothes and the bed-sheets he had slept on. They did it silently, moving habitually through the house. Al didn't want to provoke Matt—his brother had nearly knocked his tooth out with that last punch, channeling grief into anger—but he needed to know: "Mattie, did you really love him?"

"I don't know. I'm just a boy," Matt said quietly. He was holding a wilted white lily, twirling it gently between his fingers, staring into the flickering orange flames. "What do I know about love?" And he threw it onto the fire.

* * *

Matt heard later that a fishing boat had been spotted off the coast with the Mounties in close pursuit. It had made a run from Spanish Room, getting lost on the choppy waves, and disappeared into the thick fog, _just like on the night I found him_, Matt thought. He prayed that Francis had escaped, but he hadn't heard anything yet to confirm or deny it and he couldn't ignore the anxiety he felt. Even knowing that Francis was dead—drowned or imprisoned—would have been better than not knowing anything at all. Then again:_ As long as I don't know I can believe that he's alive_.

After thoroughly interrogating the Kirkland boys—who showed up at the station in town, beaten and soaked, having been threatened by a fugitive—and after searching the Kirkland homestead, the Mounties relented. They had no reason to suspect Arthur's involvement and he was released. He returned home two days after Francis' departure, after his stolen boat had been spotted by the coastguard. He didn't ask any questions about what had transpired since his arrest, which Matt was grateful for, even though it didn't matter. Francis was gone and he wasn't coming back. "It's done," Arthur said finitely, "I don't want to know the details," though Matt figured that he suspected.

It had been almost a month when Al returned from the post-box one morning, dusted with snow, carrying a slender box. Matt was sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast; Arthur was reading, but he lowered his book in curiosity. "It's for you," Al said, handing it to Matt.

Matt frowned. There was no label besides the stylized scrawl that said: KIRKLAND, not even an address (not that one was needed in Spanish Room). "How do you know it's for me?" he asked skeptically.

Al shrugged. "I looked inside it."

"Alfred, you shouldn't open someone else's parcel," Arthur berated. "Honestly, that's— Mathew? What is it?"

But Matt was barely listening. He was smiling; he couldn't help himself. Tears of relief pricked his big, violet eyes. "Thank God," he whispered, lifting the parcel's contents.

_You'll know I'm alive_, Francis had promised. Inside the box was a perfect white lily.


	7. Epilogue

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**"French Perfume" – Great Big Sea**

**FRENCH PERFUME**

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

Mathew? Come inside, love, it's getting cold," said Arthur, shivering. Matt was standing on the cliff's edge, facing the bay. It was late and it was snowing, and he was staring absently at the moonlit water. The wind was blowing, teasing his pale-blonde curls, but he wasn't wearing a coat. "Mathew?"

"I know, I'll be in soon," he said. When Arthur didn't retreat, he gave his father a reassuring smile. "I'm not pining, if that's what you're worried about. I just like the look of the water." He gestured.

Arthur joined him, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his violet-eyed son. The moonlit black water, like waves of glass, was cold but beautiful. It was a while before he spoke, but when he did his voice was kind: "I disagree with Alfred," he said hesitantly, deciding whether or not to admit: "I think that Francis really did love you. It's just that sometimes love's not enough. You're young," he said, squeezing Matt's shoulder. "I know it hurts now, but you've got all the time in the world to fall in love again. Don't rush it. Now come inside and I'll make you a cuppa tea."

"In a minute," Matt said. Arthur paused, then nodded and left.

Carefully Matt climbed down the cliff's steep descent, over the rocks to the sandy beach. He removed his shoes and crept to the water, lapping gently at the shore and licking Matt's toes. He could see the site where Francis' ship lay at the bottom of the bay, ten feet beneath the surface, the waves' wake rolling over it in the silvery moonlight. The same place—so nearby—where Matt had pulled the half-drowned Frenchman from the water. "I don't regret it," he said aloud, smiling. There was nobody there to hear him. Nobody to see him lift his face to the sky and breathe in a sudden gust of wind, momentarily turning. It tossed his hair and tugged his clothes, smelling like French perfume.

* * *

**FIN**

**THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)**


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